Ten Reasons
by Angel Blackwood
Summary: On a late night flight home, Scully tries to convince herself that a platonic relationship is just fine...without success. Post-ep for Arcadia. Disclaimer: Not mine.
1. Chapter 1

The flight from Denver was interminable. Dana Scully stared out of the tiny window to her right and shifted uncomfortably. They had spent an extra day at the San Diego field office, finishing up paperwork before heading to the airport in the evening. Their original flight had developed engine trouble early on, forcing a hasty descent to the nearest airport and a mad scramble to find an alternative return route. She hated flying and their unscheduled landing had left her emotionally ragged.

The last minute commuter flight Mulder had managed to get them onto held few amenities, but it would get them home by morning. A "redeye" back to D.C., it was populated with busy people leading busy lives: Type A's who just couldn't wait until morning to meet their agendas. Laptops were everywhere and Scully suspected that a tally of cell phones would render a high yield. Her own computer sat perched on the tiny tray table in front of her, open to a random file. The blank white screen spoke of her lassitude and the cursor blinked lazily back at her, daring her to begin. She was dog tired, but unable to rest.

Yawning, she arched her back, stretching the cramped muscles there with a small groan before leaning back against the wall of the narrow plane. It was an older craft with a single aisle separating two rows of double seats. Of course, Mulder had insisted on sitting beside her, in spite of the fact that the plane was relatively empty.

She scanned the cabin routinely before allowing her gaze to settle upon her lanky partner slouched in the seat beside her, arms crossed over his torso, one leg extended into the aisle, already asleep. For someone who claimed insomnia as a personal virtue, Mulder never seemed to have a problem sleeping on a plane. She wondered what his Oxford-trained mind would say about the psychological significance of that anomaly.

Honestly, the man could eat anything, sleep anywhere and never miss a beat; she mused, studying his profile from half-lidded eyes. His chestnut locks were slightly tousled and the shadow of new beard was showing on his angular, handsome face. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest for awhile, and then allowed her eyes a long, slow perusal of his form. It was a luxury she rarely permitted herself.

He was wearing her favorite suit, a dark blue worsted that accentuated his height and slim build. The old saying "clothing makes the man" could easily be "Mulder makes the clothing." He carried himself with easy grace and made everything look good, whether it was an expensive Armani or an old T-shirt and jeans. The image of a scruffy Mulder sprang to mind, making her smile. She always acknowledged his good looks, but rarely permitted them to register on her in any significant way. Not while they were working. It would be altogether too distracting. And Special Agent Dana Scully did not tolerate distraction when it came to work.

She had one cardinal rule: nothing interfered with the job at hand. Personal feelings, she had learned early on in her academy training, had a way of turning one's attention from what needed to be done. That rule held twice as true for women at the Bureau as it did for the men; a necessary code of behavior that allowed her to operate effectively within the male-dominated construct of the FBI.

Which is why she carefully kept her own feelings safely tucked away, especially when it came to her partner. Growing up in a military family, she had developed an immutable self-discipline that had saved them many times over in the field, as well as provided her safe refuge from the emotions that seethed just under the surface between herself and the man who napped beside her. Still, this last case had tested her limits sorely.

Just what had Skinner been thinking? She wondered at her A.D.'s mindset when he had asked them to go undercover, posing as a married couple, in order to infiltrate The Falls at Arcadia, a deluxe planned community that seemed to be hiding more than its fair share of secrets. She would have much preferred pursuing the investigation outright. Things between her and Mulder were still somewhat strained.

It had only been a few weeks since their last contact with Cassandra Spender, along with her son and Diana Fowley. She was still smarting from the argument she and Mulder had exchanged at the Gunmen's lab about Diana's motives. How could he not see her duplicity? After their reassignment to the X-Files, they had mended some fences and tacitly agreed to disagree, but she asked the boys to continue their mining expedition on Diana's activities overseas.

It was at that point that Skinner brought them into his office with their California assignment. He had worn an unreadable look as he outlined the case to them. Undercover work? Mulder's interest had been clearly piqued and his purposeful glance as they sat in Skinner's office warned what lay ahead. Scully knew she was in for a challenge, albeit a manageable one. After nearly six years, she had turned sublimation into a fine art.

Yes, she had held her emotions in check very well these last few days, but Mulder could be downright persistent when seeking her attention. Not that she minded much. She was accustomed to fielding his innuendo with aplomb, but he had really overdone it this time.

Their stay at Arcadia had placed them in close proximity without their usual barriers in place, which is to say: standard issue wardrobe, complete with matching Sig Sauers; separate but equal motel rooms; and no need to pretend they were anything but the highly capable federal agents they were. No, this time they were posing as civilians, sans weapons, sharing a comfortable house and pretending to be married.

Mulder seemed to be having fun. He had kept up a steady stream of suggestive remarks, as well as having taken every opportunity to close the gap in their personal space, touching her time and time again.

It had taken every ounce of her professional will to maintain her composure and keep him focused. She knew he was bored with their first assignment back on the X-Files and so he amused himself by pestering her. She had parried with her best efforts, even a deliberate attempt at over-familiarity. It only seemed to encourage him. And in spite of his flippant manner when he had invited her to join him on their supposed communal bed, she knew better than to think he wasn't half-serious. Make that totally serious.

Just what would he have done if she had decided to take him up on his very attractive offer? No, she really couldn't think about that right how. Maybe not ever. Things between she and Mulder were complicated, at best, and after years of steering clear of physical intimacy, starting now would require more energy than she honestly thought she could manage. And that wasn't all.

There were many reasons why she and Mulder would and probably should keep their relationship strictly platonic. Honestly, there were. She could feel her mind forming the beginnings of a counter-argument she did not want to hear. If I put it down in black and white, she thought, it will be clearer.

With that, she turned to her laptop and opened a folder in the directory containing her personal journal. Leaning over to her partner, she softly called his name. He stirred slightly, but did not waken. Convinced of his unconscious state, she began typing in an even rhythm, allowing herself to relax and settle into her thoughts as she worked...

... March 1

Why Making Love With Mulder Is Not A Good Idea

End - Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

... March 1

Why Making Love With Mulder Is Not A Good Idea

1. The FBI has rules about these things.

Actually they don't, not between two consenting adults at any rate. It would be easier if they did. If there really were an ironclad non-fraternization clause in the Bureau's Big Book of Rules, I wouldn't have to be the one to always put on the brakes every time Mulder insinuates himself into my personal space. He's been doing it for years.

At first, he used it to keep me off guard as he figured out if he could trust me. Later, it became his way of staying connected, as if touching me created some sort of psychic bond he could draw upon at will. I wonder if he realizes the havoc he wreaks on my senses every time he wakes me with a touch of his hand on my cheek after I've fallen asleep in the car; or pushes a stray lock of my hair back into place or guides me through a doorway with his hand against my back.

That's the easy stuff, by the way. What really gets to me are his eyes, especially when he turns them on me full of the desire and love he thinks he is hiding from me. With rules to confine me, I could ignore the meaningful glances he casts to me in a silent language that years of teamwork have honed to a fine degree. I could dismiss the way they soften when he is teasing or widen when he thinks I am in danger. Yes, I see it. I feel it. I want it. I'd be stone if I were immune to Mulder's intensity.

Then there's the voice; an incongruous blend of gravel and velvet that caresses my name and speaks low into my ear words no one else hears. The topic can be a voodoo death curse or statistics on alien abductions; the subliminal message is always the same: only you, Scully. Only you.

Let's not even talk about that incredible mouth.

Yes, it would be a hell of a lot easier to resist Fox Mulder if I could rely on protocol to command my Irish Catholic guilt about regulations and being a dutiful government agent. As things stand now, however, it's just me holding the line I know he wants to cross; the line I want him to cross; the line we must not cross because-

2. It would ruin a successful working relationship.

Individually, we are both highly competent field agents. Together, we are unstoppable. Our solve rate hovers at about 80%. That's pretty damned impressive by anyone's standards. Mulder and I have always had great respect for one another's talents. We counterpoint each another, maximizing strength and minimizing weakness.

Our differences, combined, give us an edge over our adversaries few can match. Most people can't handle style differences when they work together. We seem to thrive on it. I honestly can't say why. For me, it's always been a challenge to understand just where Mulder is coming from, to get him to see my point of view. He tries, he really does.

Over the years, I've learned to trust his instincts, most of the time. He leans on me for the rational response that our superiors demand and I depend on his passion to help me escape conventional thinking.

His integrity is unquestionable, even if his actions often gain him nothing but derision in public. So I stand with him, protect him and cover for him in spite of the fact that he continually rebels against my scientific, pragmatic approach. His intuitive leaps of deduction frequently astound me.

Mulder is like a laser beacon, burning anyone or anything that dares stand in its way as it shoots clear and fiery towards its goal. If we were to-become involved, the delicate balance we've constructed could be upset. One of us might get hurt. I don't think I could take that. I know that Mulder couldn't. He'd inevitably blame himself for whatever went wrong and we could lose what has come to mean so much to me, to the both of us-.

3. It would ruin a wonderful friendship.

I've never had a friend like Mulder. Friends, yes. Like Mulder, never. He has seen me at my very worst and never said a word. Okay, he did once make a snide remark about my feet, but that was under bizarre circumstances. When we are working a case, we can be in close quarters for days on end. We had better be friends; otherwise we'd kill each other. When we are on, the work flows, Mulder's humor is in full gear and things generally get done quickly and well. When we are off, he becomes morose and sulky. It passes. We forgive each other's frailties. I am no longer surprised when he disappears unexpectedly. Just irritated. In return, he puts up with my PMS and petty tantrums. Trust me, it isn't pretty.

He supports and defends me before our superiors. He respects my opinions, even when he doesn't agree with them. He is not a religious man, but he believes in miracles. I don't think I could have gotten through my cancer ordeal without his faith that we would find a cure. He's put himself in harm's way so many times for me I can't even begin to repay my debt of gratitude to him. Yes, I owe him, no matter what he said to the contrary, standing in his hallway nearly a year ago. I remember his arms around me then, strong and solid.

We have stood like that before. From the beginning, I have looked to him in the moments when logic flees, when the demons of my life come flying at me and I am no longer the very professional Dr. Scully or the very capable Special Agent Scully of the FBI. I have sought him on instinct, in times of blind panic or pure emotion. The first time I ran to him, I was young, inexperienced, and half-dressed in an Oregon motel room. Then, as now, he took my fear into himself and banished it with gentle reassurance that it would be okay, that I was safe with him.

How often I have turned to that offer of quiet strength when I needed it most - against the almost unimaginable terror that followed in the wake of Donnie Pfaster; against the desperate and gut-clenching fear of death as an alien invader called Cancer claimed my body, no stranger than those without and perhaps, stranger because it came from within; against the screaming dread that I had truly and finally lost him when he disappeared into the Russian wastelands only to return, like Lazarus from the dead, whole and beautiful, still railing against the wind that always threatens to drown out his clarion call.

No, I have never had a friend like Mulder before and probably, never will again. Not even my family has done for me what Mulder has done. Speaking of which-.

4. My brother, Bill, hates him.

Then again, Bill has hated every male who showed any interest in me, even when I was a kid. I still remember what he did to my first crush in the second grade. Joey Antonelli sat across from me at lunch and was always trading me his meager bread-and-butter sandwiches for mom's more abundant fare, replete with homemade cookies. He always made it seem like I was getting the better deal somehow, but I didn't care because he seemed so sweet and sad. Guess I've always been a sucker for the melancholy type. Anyway, Bill found out about the lunch swapping one day and pinned poor Joey against the chain-link fence surrounding the Crowley Elementary schoolyard. I cried hot tears of protest, but Joey never stood a chance, much to my dismay.

I hardly dated in high school, feeling awkward with my good mind but less-than-perfect body. Bill's reputation for being "that hothead Scully" kept most of the boys at arm's length. Funny, Missy never shared that problem with me. "Just tell him to buzz off," she'd once said during one of our late-night bull sessions. Wish I could, but I've always had difficulty dealing with Bill's stubborn temper. Not Missy. She always stood her ground when she thought she was right. I like to think I've learned that from her; she'd like that.

During college, I could still feel Bill's disapproving stares as I introduced first one, then another young man to the Scully clan. No one was good enough. Missy, on the other hand, liked everybody. She liked Mulder, too. Mom says they often talked after I was abducted. They refused to believe I was really gone, in spite of everything that spoke otherwise.

God, I miss her. So does Bill. I know that he blames Mulder for her death and my illness, even if I do not. I know that he perceives Mulder to be just another guy sniffing around his little sister, Dana, even though I've never said a word to make him think that we are anything but partners. Are we that obvious? I can just imagine what he would say if he suspected how I really feel about Mulder. I can just imagine what everyone would say if they suspected covert (read, "between the sheets") activity between the two of us. Oh, yes-

5. Rumors at the Bureau would fly faster than a stealth bomber.

I know. The rumors are already thick and heavy. I am Mrs. Spooky, after all. Still, I can dismiss the stares and the whispers at my back when I enter the elevator because I know they're only conjecture. I can ignore the appreciative glances women give Mulder as he walks beside me because it doesn't matter to me, right? We are only partners, I remind myself.

Even our A.D. wonders about us. I've seen the curiosity in Skinner's eyes as he observes us together. His look is neither approving nor disapproving, merely interested as his mind tries to discern the truth from rumor, to connect the pieces of the puzzle that is us. Yes, rumors abound. They are not true. If they were, keeping a poker face all day would be a nightmare of extreme proportions. Working beside Mulder on a daily basis is difficult enough with his remarks, his glances and his touches constantly stoking the embers of my unfulfilled desires. Working beside Mulder knowing that I could have him, were we truly lovers, would be a maddening secret to maintain. Besides-

6. Stop there. Six sounds too much like sex, which I don't want to think about.

Except most nights, when I'm lying in my bed, alone, I wonder what Mulder's hands on me would feel like, what he would do and how I would respond. I always promise myself that I will not give in to the demands my body begs of me, for the release that my own touch can provide. I try to think of other things to distract, to comfort, to deter me, without success. Inevitably, I find my hands slowly perusing my body in a familiar dance that I know well. All the while, I am thinking of him. In my mind's eye, I see his face above mine, imagine his breath warm against my cheek; then his mouth on mine, moving to my breast; his hand at my core, as I establish a pleasing rhythm. My soul battles with my body to stop before it goes further. My body is victor.

They say that the mind cannot distinguish reality from fantasy as it processes emotion; that our body responds to the fantasy and to the reality in equal measure. If that is so, then Mulder and I are already lovers. I picture us together in my bed, limbs entwined, his long form covering mine as we wordlessly commune our need, our passion, our love for one another. When I finally reach the pinnacle, it is his name that steals from me, a broken tormented whisper and I tumble down, down, down into the swirl of my physical pleasure and the anguish of denied emotion. I am always stunned by the power of these images, and moved. Sometimes, I am overcome with grief and sometimes, with a deep need to finally tell him something, anything to change the status quo. But-

7. My life is too complicated right now.

Ironic. Every time I think that things can't become any crazier or difficult or impossible to manage, they do. Perspective is everything. Growing up, all I wanted was to live in the same house for more than a couple of years. At college, I wanted recognition from my professors; at med school, respect from my peers.

I entered the FBI, partly to prove to my family, as well as to myself, that I was an independent, modern woman who would make a difference in the world. That meant focusing on my goals and minimizing the detours. Even my relationship with Jack Willis was carefully monitored to ensure no deviation from my chosen path to the professional fast track. I had no idea just how far off-track my life would go. I put off marriage and family, sure that those things would come later. And if not, at least I would be well respected by my peers and valued by my government.

When I was first assigned to work with Mulder, I was certain that my role was vital, that this "loose cannon" was a subtle danger to everything for which the Bureau stood. Keeping tabs on him and proving him unworthy of his position would be a noble assignment. I knew there were ulterior motives at play, a grander design unbeknownst to me of which I was only a part and which I did not question because there was no need to know.

Still, his dossier was fascinating and I found myself wondering how such a talented individual could have fallen so far from so high. Meeting him for the first time, I was surprised. He was intelligent, quirky and charming in an odd sort of way. Not at all threatening, except to my heartbeat, which increased exponentially considering his extreme good looks and flirtatious manner.

As I came to know him, I discovered a man of honor whose tender sensibilities were shielded in self-preservation against the harsh realities he endured. My original assignment became subverted to my curiosity and personal commitment to him-secondary to his quest, a quest pursued by a modern-day hero in pursuit of an elusive dream.

Yes, Mulder is a dreamer when it comes to his sister or his belief in the absurd. He is a champion of the innocent and a fearless advocate for those he believes to be misled and abused. He is also a hardened realist when it comes to seeking out the truth of things; about a government that conspires against its own people and about individuals who use their power to protect a few at the expense of many. That is not what I had imagined for myself. So, I sided with St. George, a.k.a. Fox Mulder, and we fight the dragons with ferocity and skill. It is madness, like I told him once, a "folie a deux" and we are bound together in it. Becoming lovers would be dangerous folly, wouldn't it? The Powers That Be are already after us, angered with us, determined to destroy us-.

8. It scares me.

I would walk through fire for Mulder. I would. And I know he would do the same for me. We have seen much in our travels together, things easily and not so easily explained. My hands and eyes have sought secrets from the dead in hopes of learning still-living truths from beyond the grave. I have faced demons, both real and imagined. I have walked the line between sanity and madness. I remain whole because Mulder is with me, always. Even when we are working separately, we are still together, united in a way I can not understand, let alone describe.

Since we began down this long, dangerous path, I have come to believe that the government I once trusted entirely may not be worthy of my trust and while the truth is out there, it is also here within us. Yet, I still find it difficult to believe what happened to me last summer when I was stung by a mutant bee and carried off, unconscious, to Antarctica. Antarctica, for Chrissake. How Mulder found me, I still don't know. He never speaks about that time or the kiss we almost shared that sultry afternoon in June when he thought I was leaving him. I haven't pressed him on it, either. I think he is afraid that what followed then will happen again, or worse. We are both afraid. Sadly, we suspect that the distance we keep is a heart-breaking necessity in light of the Consortium's determination to keep us, him, under tight control, using whatever means necessary. Still, the memory of that almost kiss burns in my memory and-

9. It excites me.

"You made me a whole person." Words I thought I would never hear from him, I can recall as if it were happening now. Tenderness was in his eyes as he silently asked permission to breach the barrier between us. Tears ran hot down my cheeks with desire and fear for I am powerless to stop him when he approaches so seriously, without the pretense of humor to save us from ourselves. His hands, as he held my face, seared me as his lips inched closer to mine until-a sharp throbbing startled me and I sank into darkness, our rendezvous aborted. Had an errant insect not interrupted us, we might have returned to his apartment and allowed five years of sexual sparring to finally progress into something substantial. It was not to be, but we both wanted it. More than anything, I wanted to trust Mulder with all of myself, completely and without reservation; to move closer and lose myself-in him.

This is what stirs, and frightens, me: his power over me, my surrender to his will, my willingness to forego all that has preceded us just to keep that wondrous feeling of him joined to me. It is a heady experience and a terrifying one. In matters of the heart, I am the coward. Mulder is courageous, even foolhardy, but courageous nonetheless. Months later, he lay in a hospital bed after being rescued from an ill-considered enterprise. Half-awake and full of tranquilizers, he tells a crazy story about how I saved the world. "Scully-I love you," he says. Maybe it is the drugs, maybe he is still dreaming. Maybe he doesn't understand what he is saying, but he says it anyway. To me. I will hold those words as dear as his life and for the rest of mine. I can only hope beyond reason that one day we will find our way back to a moment when the space between us narrows from a chasm to a thread, a thread tied from my heart to his, but I fear it is wasted effort because-

10. It will never happen.

We are caught in a web woven by master spinners. Our fate is tied to forces whose breadth and scope we are just beginning to comprehend. We are only people, Mulder and I, ordinary people. Truly. We laugh and cry, love and hate. We sleep and eat and worry and dream. We wonder what tomorrow will bring and then wonder if there will be a tomorrow. The bond we share is wonderful and special.

We are partners, but so much more. We are friend and family to each other and close in so many ways that making love would just be a minor expression of everything we have come to mean to each other. There is so much at stake and the risks are high. We don't need to tempt The Fates.

I still want to. ...

"So do I," Mulder's voice murmured beside her.

End - Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

"So do I," Mulder's voice murmured beside her. Scully gasped and sat frozen, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a truck. Then, without hesitation, her hands moved to close the laptop, her palms resting against its smooth surface. She closed her eyes, willing herself to keep breathing while a slow burn rose along her cheeks. Taking a deep breath, she opened them again, releasing the air slowly all the while wishing it was a dream. With a slight turn of her head, she glanced towards her partner. His seat was still reclined, but he was angled towards her, his hands lying motionless in his lap. The plane was hushed, except for the low whine of the engines. The cabin lights were dim and most of the occupants were asleep. They were virtually alone.

Turning to face him, she found herself unable to meet his eyes. He waited. How much had he read? She could feel a tingle of fear at her periphery, but what exactly was she afraid of? This was Mulder. Her partner - her best friend. Wasn't friendship about being honest with each other? She quickly thought back to her last words about tempting The Fates. Even if he was ready to do so, she wasn't sure if she was. Still, she couldn't just ignore him.

Finally, she lifted her head. His hazel eyes were nearly gray in the softly shadowed space. They held hers steadily and she shivered at the hunger she found there. A sudden warmth rose between her legs as her pulse increased and her skin flushed. One part of her brain was cataloging the simple mechanics of human sexual arousal with an oddly clinical detachment, while the other half was screaming for self-control. Mulder just watched, a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. She frankly couldn't decide what was affecting her more: her discomfort at her passion laid bare or her irritation at his temerity.

A flash of anger shot through her. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to read over someone's shoulder?" she questioned as calmly as she could, hoping he didn't catch the slight tremor in her voice.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, she did," he replied with a raised brow, "but I've never been the obedient type. Besides, you never know what interesting information will turn up if," he paused, "you just know where to look." He was bantering, throwing back at her words she had said to him, so long ago. He was giving her a way out if that was what she wanted. She relaxed, a little. Mulder the Tease she could handle. He just seemed so damned pleased with himself.

She had to ask. "Just how much of my *personal* journal entry did you read?"

"Oh, I woke up somewhere near No. 7-maybe." His voice was silken as his eyes bored into her own. Oh God. Had he...she couldn't even consider how much more he might have seen. She looked away, her nerves jangled again. Her hands were trembling just a bit and she was finding it difficult to breathe properly. He sat forward and reached over then, covering both of her hands with one of his own. He leaned close to her ear and she could smell a trace of the cologne he wore, musk mixed with his own unique scent. His breath fell warm on her neck.

"Scully," he practically whispered, suddenly serious, "I once told you that I never wanted you to feel that you had to hide anything from me. Do you remember?" She sighed quickly, wetting her lips. She nodded her reply. "So, why are you hiding now?" His breath fell along her ear, as he nudged her with the tip of his nose, his lips barely brushing the tender place on her neck just behind the lobe. His touch was light, tentative, but it sent chills along her body.

"I'm not - hiding - anything, Mulder," she said unevenly.

"Liar," he breathed, his voice laced with amusement and sensuality. His hand gently manipulated one of hers over, his fingertips tracing indiscriminate patterns along the palm and between her delicate fingers, the subtle tactile sensation ricocheting through her.

She watched with fascination, wondering how he could do this to her with only a touch. Her breathing had become shallow and she could feel her heightened awareness of him coursing through every fiber of her being. She was geared for "fight-or-flight" and she knew it, but she was essentially trapped between the body of the plane and Mulder.

She wanted to move, to get away from him. But it felt so good, so right, to have him there. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember why they shouldn't be doing this. She could hear him speaking to her, but she was having difficulty focusing on his words.

"I know we've been at odds, Scully," he was saying, "but I was hoping that going to California, working on the X-Files again, could somehow-fix things."

"Wait a minute," she said as much to herself as to him. She was trying to concentrate on his words, but she was being distracted by his seemingly innocent touch. Fix things? Did he honestly think that all it took was a little sweet-talk to make everything all right? Her muzzy brain was battling for clarity. Anger helped. Pulling slightly away from him, she disentangled her hands from his and put them up at him, as if to keep him at bay while she collected herself. She met his eyes squarely, her voice steady. "How could that happen, Mulder? After everything we've been through in the last year, everything that's been said, do you really think we could just go back and pretend it all never happened?" Her hands turned in open supplication, before dropping into her lap.

He pulled away then, confusion written on his face. "To what, exactly, are you referring?" She wondered how he could be so brilliant and so dense at the same time. "Forget it, Mulder," she said simply, hoping they could leave things where they were. He wasn't having any of it.

"No, Scully. I- I won't," he responded. "I just thought that we had already covered this ground. We are talking about Diana, aren't we?"

Were they? Scully reflected on the last year's events. It was true. Since Diana Fowley's reappearance in Washington nearly a year ago, things had definitely changed between her and Mulder. Their partnership, which she had always taken for granted, suddenly seemed more fragile.

Mulder's interest in Diana had unexpectedly jarred her. Not even his past history with Phoebe Green had affected her so acutely. Things were better following their return from the South Pole, but still precarious in ways she hadn't anticipated. Again, it was Diana invading their space, their time, their bond. For the first time, Dana Scully fully understood the meaning of the words "murderous jealousy." It both shocked and appalled her.

Mulder was waiting for her response. She had to be honest with him. Still struggling with the intensity of her own emotions, she proceeded with caution.

"I don't understand you, Mulder," she began. "I know we agreed to 'let it lie,' but I don't think that I can do that and still allow you...in. I don't even know what Diana means to you or why you defend her so vehemently. Frohike told me that the two of you were involved a long time ago. Is that why? Is it some sort of past loyalty that binds you to her?"

He looked downwards. "Diana was there for me when no one else gave a rat's ass about what happened to me, Scully. She stood by me when I was basically kicked out of the VCU and thrown into the basement. Do you have any idea what that felt like?" His voice was bitter. When he met her eyes, they were filled with long-repressed hurt and anger.

"No," she replied gently, suddenly pained by his torment. "It must have been humiliating."

"To say the least." He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she noted their brightness. He hardly ever mentioned his work at the VCU, what his early career had been like: the accolades, the honors, the assurances that he was destined for great things. And later, the whispers, the envious rumors, the final anonymous betrayal of trust that had brought him down. These were things, she knew, he could recall in vivid detail, without the balm of human forgetfulness to ease their sting.

Instinctively, she reached out, laying her hand along his arm. Her voice softened. "Mulder, I can understand you being grateful to someone who supported you at that time. But people change and the evidence we've gathered on her is incontrovertible and it is damning."

"Scully, listen to me. I know there are things about Diana that you don't trust." She moved to speak, but he silenced her with a look. "And, yes, I have done some investigating on my own. I haven't come up with anything concrete."

"Don't you think that if she's that well connected, she can cover her tracks?" Her eyes held his with entreaty and challenge.

He nodded slightly. "I've thought of that, but I refuse to turn on someone who has proven themselves to me until I have hard evidence. I wouldn't do that to you, Scully; or Byers, or Langly, or Frohike...or Skinner, for that matter. And I won't do that to her." He was resolute. She still believed Diana was using him to meet her own agenda, but she respected his loyalty and had no choice but to count on his integrity to continue seeking the truth, just as he always had. There was, however, still something she wanted - no, needed, to know.

"Were you lovers?" she queried softly.

"Briefly. It complicated things; got in the way of the work." He said it

simply, factually.

"In other words...you tempted The Fates...and lost." Tears rose, unbidden, stinging her eyes. She fought them back, confused by her reaction. She would not allow him to see her this way. They agreed it seemed, yet she was suddenly broken-hearted. Her efforts to conceal her feelings only further revealed them. Mulder's expression became one of concern as he noted her distress. He leaned in, just a bit.

"It was different, Scully. Diana basically pursued me. I was young and she was older, more experienced. I was flattered by the attention. I've never been very good at relationships. After Phoebe, I was wary, but Diana was easy to talk to and I guess I just needed someone to care."

"But she hurt you."

"When she left, yes. But I wasn't surprised. We had never been especially close, in spite of the fact that she supported my work on the X-Files. We were intimate for the wrong reasons. It was all backwards, an attempt to become closer emotionally by being closer physically. Good sex is still good, but it wasn't much of anything else. I care about Diana because she's a friend, but-" he hesitated, then.

She looked away, uncertain if she wanted to hear any more. Mulder spoke slowly, measuring his words, "but she's not you. I would never do for her what I've done for you." His voice was low, rough with emotion as he continued. "And no one, Scully, has ever done for me...or given to me... what you have. It's really very simple...I just can't lose you again."

Scully's head was bowed, her auburn hair falling across her cheek. Reaching out with his hand, Mulder gently tucked the coppery tresses behind her ear with an endearing familiarity. At his touch, she raised her face to meet his own. She went absolutely still.

His eyes probed hers, seeking answers to questions they had long left unspoken. His fingers brushed against her cheek as his eyes dropped to study her mouth, so close to his own. He ran his thumb back and forth across her lower lip slowly. She was unprepared for the rush of feeling that flooded her, drawing her focus inwards to him, his touch and this moment in time. Their faces were close, just as they had been nearly a year ago. They were at that place once more and his expression told her that he recognized it, too.

His eyes met her own for a moment and he slowly shook his head, as if to ward off inner warnings demanding notice. Then, he kissed her-a gentle caress of his lips against hers that merely lasted seconds before he pulled away, only to come back at her quickly a second and third time with soft, hungry kisses that stole away her breath. The sensation was achingly sweet.

Warning bells were going off at the back of her mind, telling her to stop the madness now, for it was madness. In a matter of seconds, he had completely and irrevocably crashed the barriers she had so carefully constructed between them. She was dizzy, her resolve jarred by his proximity. She wanted nothing more than to fall into his lovely mouth, knowing she would gladly drown in him if she did. He paused for a moment, visibly affected by their exchange. It was only a moment, but it gave Scully the space to finally hear the voice in her mind, her own voice, telling her to stop, stop now.

He moved to kiss her again. She could feel, as well as hear, his breath sough against her mouth as she moved her lips away from his so slightly as to be unnoticeable. Still, he felt it. Their reflexes, calibrated to the slightest shift of nuance between them, signaled her retreat and he would press no further without her willingness. She felt his soft sigh as she lowered her head against him, his mouth trailing against her cheek, her eyelid, her brow. When she pulled away from him, she immediately missed his warmth.

"We can't do this, Mulder," she whispered, unable to look at him. "It's too dangerous. We-I have to be-rational about this." She looked at him, then. "Please understand." She knew she was hurting him by the look on his face, but it had to be said. He opened his mouth as if to tell her something and stopped, knowing that once she made a decision, there was little he could do to change her mind. He turned from her with a deep sigh.

She sat staring at him, her tears threatening to fall. Laying a hand gently against his back, she leaned her head against his shoulder. She struggled to find her voice, as well as the words that would help him understand her conflicted emotions. "Mulder," she began and paused.

What could she say? If he had read her journal, he knew how she felt. How could she deny it? She had hoped for this moment and now, here they were-no bees, no case, nothing to prevent her from finally telling him the simple truth. She loved him. But the truth wasn't simple at all, was it? It never had been, for them. She wanted him. So? Would that protect them from the insanity that lay in wait? Would it make any difference at all if what Cancer Man had told Mulder were true? It only validated her fears.

Her heart was heavy when she spoke again. "Everything I am belongs to you, Mulder. You should know that by now." She couldn't see his eyes, but she knew he was listening intently. "I hardly remember a time when you weren't a part of me. But I- can't allow us to take that final step. It's not our time."

Mulder dropped his head back towards her. "Ah, Scully," he said in a voice full of longing, "will it ever be our time?"

"I don't know," she replied simply.

He sighed deeply again and turned back to face her once more. "What difference could it possibly make? We're already in so deep, we can't walk away." She wasn't sure if he was talking about the conspiracy or their feelings. Then again, did it really matter? Either way, it was truth, but she had no answer for him.

They stayed like that a long while, their voices silent, their eyes unwilling to break their quiet communion. At last, he broke the silence. "I'm a patient man, Scully," he told her. "I can wait for what I want. I can wait until you think it's our time."

"I don't know when that will be," she replied apologetically, hating herself and wishing she weren't so damned realistic, just for once.

"Well, I do," he said with a curious lilt in his voice. His eyes were still sad, but the edges of his mouth were slowly curving upwards. "I'll just have to wait until you get tired of Number Six," he chided, placing his hand gently atop the closed laptop where it sat.

Her jaw nearly dropped, as she closed her eyes, a flush running straight through her. He had assessed their options, choosing hope over despair and rebounding with mischief. That was Mulder. "You just say the word, Scully," he purred. "Just pick up the phone, write, send an e-mail, whatever. I'll be there."

Needing to gain a small measure of control of the situation and herself, she mustered her nerve and opened her eyes to meet his smug grin. "Oh, I don't know, Mulder," she tossed at him, suddenly brazen. "Your fantasy precedes you." A slow smile lifted one corner of her mouth as she cast him a look that told him exactly what she meant. His slow blink as he exhaled told her she had met her mark. He shot an impenetrable look at her, then stood and stretched.

He faced her, then, and leaned down, one arm at the back of the seat ahead of her, the other fingering the golden cross at her neck. "Not for long, Scully," he admonished. "Definitely. Not for long." He paused. "I'll see you at Dulles." He turned and without a backward glance, moved toward the front of the plane. Had he looked back he would have seen a look of wonder on Scully's face, accompanied by a blush of sheer pleasure.

That, and a very uncharacteristic heart on her left sleeve.

End - Ten Reasons


End file.
